Teenage Wasteland
by itslovemydearsherlock
Summary: John Watson, aspiring to become an army doctor, never expected to find a boy like Sherlock Holmes. Let alone live with him. This is John and Sherlock's lives as they deal with the pain of being teenagers. Trigger warning with Self Harm and Depression. Teenlock. Eventual Johnlock. Rated M for language
1. First Impressions

Sherlock Holmes leaned against the wall of the gym building, taking a drag from his last cigarette. As he exhaled, he heard a swarm of girls giggling about some mundane reason. 'Idiots, they're all bloody idiots,' he thought to himself, looking up to the sky. He wondered why he have to be forced to participate in this charade every single day. He knew all of the materials in his textbooks, more so than any of his classmates. He had already figured out those 'challenging life problems' the professors tried to shove down the students throats. 'Useless, it's all useless,' he thought taking another drag.

John Watson was biting the end of his pencil as he tried to focus on the problem in front of him. How did he not understand projectile motion? School related things normally came easy to him, just not physics. He noticed a funny taste in his mouth, when he realized he had bitten off the rubber to his pencil. "Shit," John mumbled as he spit out the accursed thing, then continued to try and figure out how to solve this problem. Class had ended over a half an hour ago, but John was determined. Determined to finish this blasted work page before heading back to his room. 'Oh, fuck this. I'll work on it later,' he thought in anger as he packed his books into his bag and walked out the class room.

John casually strolled across the campus, his bag banging against his legs. It was the last day of the term, and John was finally heading home. Though he'd never admit it to them, he missed his parents, and his older sister Harry. He had tried to keep in touch with them, but with little effect. This worried John's mother the most, but over time, she learned to trust her only son. John passes by the gym building when a foul odor passed under his nose. Cigarettes. John thought in disgust as he saw a boy, not much younger than him leaning against the wall, with the infamous white stick poking out of his mouth. The boy was tall and kind of lanky. He had dark hair, and abnormally high cheekbones. The hood of his black sweatshirt hood covering his curly black hair. The boy, sensing John staring at him, looked at him quizzically. John looked away, and continued to walk along, still feeling the boy's eyes on his back. 'Don't look back, Watson. Don't look back,' John commanded himself as he trudged along.

John finally made it back to his dorm room when he noticed the door was ajar. Taking precaution, he grabbed a book out of his bag, ready to use it as a weapon against some unknown assailant when he heard a voice scream out "JOHN!" Next thing he knew was that someone had tackled him, and all he could see was sandy blonde hair. "Jesus Christ, Harry! Warn me next time you visit, okay?" John said as he removed his older sister from her bone crushing embrace. John's sister Harry, like most people, was about an inch or two taller than John was. But she still had the trademark Watson sandy blonde hair, and ever tired looking eyes. "Aw, come on Johnny-boy. Can't a girl visit her little brother and bring him home to mummy?" Harry said as she squeezed John's cheeks. "I'm not a little boy anymore. Hell, Harry! I'm 18 years old." John cried out, throwing his arms up into the air. "But you're still my younger brother, and the baby of the family. And you will be for the rest of your life," Harry said with a smirk on her face. "Great. Just bloody fantastic..." John mumbled under his breath. "Hey, watch it with the language too. You know how mum gets when you curse like that," said Harry softly. "Yeah I know. How is mum by the way? She still mad at you, for well... You know." John said reluctantly.

Harry had come out as a lesbian when she was 16, and Mrs. Watson was not too thrilled. John vaguely remembers when he was 14, the screaming that echoed through the house when Harry and his mother were having another row. John shuttered at the memory. "I think mum's okay with it now. She hasn't screamed at me in over a week so that's a good sign," Harry said, smiling faintly. "Oh, okay. That's good," John said awkwardly. "Plus, since you're coming home for two weeks, the house will be quiet for a while. She doesn't like to fight when you're home..." Harry stated, trying to seem chipper about it. John looked down and noticed Harry's wrists. There were traces of recent scabs across her veins. "Oi!" John cried as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her sleeve up. "Harry... How old are these? I thought you said you hadn't cut in a while..." John said sympathetically. "They're only a week or so old. Made them last time mum and I fought." Harry said softly. John opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't find the words. He simply sighed and said, "I guess I should get my stuff together, right?" Harry slowly nodded and followed her brother into his dorm room.

Sherlock grumbled to himself as he shoved another days worth of clothes into his duffle bag. He despised going home for the holiday. The cold presence of his mother and brother were almost unbearable for the young genius. What he really wanted to do was just stay in his dorm, but the idiotic superintendent was forcing him out. He even made Sherlock switch dorm rooms for the new term. Sherlock hated getting new roommates. All they ever tried to do was make Sherlock do their homework, then Sherlock would constantly insult them, causing a change in rooms. He seriously considered asking his older brother, Mycroft, for help but unfortunately there was nothing he could do. Sulkingly, the young detective walked to the bus stop, after refusing his brother's offer to be picked up by car, and as soon as the bus came, found a seat. He put in his earphones hoping to drown out the sound of the other students gushing on what they were going to do over the winter break as he stared blankly out the window.

"You seriously took a bus here?" John asked his sister as they walked down the aisle searching for two empty seats. "Well yeah! I sure as hell wouldn't drive here, especially when everyone else is trying to," Harry explained to her younger sibling sliding into an empty row. "It makes sense but, a bus?" John said raising his eyebrow. "Hey, it's cheap and we don't to go really far, so suck it up," Harry said starting to become angry. "All right, all right." John said laughing holding his hands up to surrender. Harry slightly smiled at him then turned to look out the window. John smiled at his sister, then when he noticed her spacing out, he decided that he should give the bloody physics work another go.

"Here, we're home," Harry said, smacking John's arm. "Huh?" John said stupidly. "We're home, you idiot." Harry said laughing trying to push John out of the row. "All right! I'm moving!" John grabbed his things and joined the crowd of others getting off at the same spot. As soon as the Watson siblings left the bus, Harry observed, "Hey, it's snowing!" John looked up at the sky as little white flakes started to land on his face. "So it is," John muttered to himself. In the corner of his eye, he saw something he recognized. It was that pale face boy again. John spun around to look at him, and the boy was looking right back at him. Harry leaned over her brother's shoulder, trying to see what had startled the boy. "Hey, he's cute. Pretty awesome cheekbones too," Harry said, turning to look at her brother. "Huh?" John muttered looking back at his sister. "Didn't think that tall and lanky would be your type, but I guess you learn something new everyday," Harry said as she started to walk away. "Wait... What? Harry, I'm not gay!" John responded, catching up with his sister. "All right, whatever floats your boat, Johnny-boy," she said with a smirk and continued to walk along. John outwardly groaned, but continued to follow his sister.

Sherlock stared puzzlingly out the window. He had seen that sandy blonde haired boy before. Multiple times actually. Sherlock remembered analyzing the boy when he first came to school. Short, more shorter than most of the school's population, an athlete, and quite a lady's man. Sherlock recalls seeing that boy with another girl almost every two weeks or so. Average intelligence, but excels at biology. He seems to want to become a doctor. This boy was just a normal, ordinary, student. Sherlock shook the image of the boy out of his head, and continued to analyze the other students around him. Two girls and one boy. One of the girls is dating the boy but neither if them know that the friend is sleeping with both of them. The two boys across from him are in love with each other, though neither of them will admit it. 'Dull' Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes and then decided to stare blankly out the window again.


	2. The Break of a Boy Genuis

Sherlock sighed as he let himself fall onto his oversized bed. He hated being home, he hated spending time around his family. He always felt so alone. How he hated feeling alone. His head started to pound. 'Shit,' Sherlock thought to himself as he felt the darkness surround him yet again. He stared blankly at the ceiling as all the cruel words ever spoken to him seeped back into his mind. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets. 'Stop, stop this,' he ordered himself. His hands creeped to the back of his neck and he dig his nails into his skin. Only slight bliss. He began to slowly claw at his neck, leaving long red marks. Still, it only slightly relive his pain. He then moved to his arms, clawing at them for dear life. Even that didn't help. 'Blood, all I want to see is blood,' Sherlock thought in desperation. The young man launched himself from the bed and looked around his room. 'Scissors,' he noticed sitting on his desk. He grabbed them and put one point to his wrist. He paused for a moment, considering for a moment what he was about to do. That was until the thoughts crept back to him. The thoughts of feeling rejected, unloved, hated. He hated himself. Clumsily he made one slash at his wrist, then he realized what had happened. He, in his emotional uproar, had cut into his artery. Blood flowed out of his wrist almost frequently. Sherlock felt his head spin as he slumped to the ground. He saw a figure standing in the doorway that belonged to his brother. "My...croft," Sherlock croaked before he finally blacked out.

When Sherlock awoke, he felt the irritation of hospital bed sheets and the uncomfortable iv drip stuck in the crook of his elbow. His head was still fuzzy, but he could hear two voices right outside his room.  
"We have to put your brother onto our 72 hour waiting period to make sure he doesn't harm himself any further. He has fresh scratch marks along his arms and his neck. We just want to make sure he is okay," Sherlock heard the man in white say. The other man, Sherlock's brother, replied.  
"I understand, can I go into see him now?"  
Sherlock groaned as the doctor nodded and pushed open the door to Sherlock's hospital room. Mycroft had a sympathetic small smile on his face as he saw his brother looking absolutely miserable in that bed.  
"I don't need your sympathy, Mycroft. I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock snarled at his brother.  
"Yes, nearly bleeding out on your bedroom floor is 'perfectly fine', brother," Mycroft snapped at Sherlock. Sherlock did not reply, but just turned his attention to the window, and the raindrops collecting on it.  
"I told mummy that it was an experiment that exploded. The doctors are going along with it. But they do need to keep you here for another two days," Mycroft calmly explained, waking over to the window to block Sherlock's view.  
"Boring," Sherlock muttered as her unread away from his brother yet again. Mycroft signed as he began to make his way toward the door.  
"I'm sure I can find something at home that might interest you for the next two days. I'll bring them over to you later," Mycroft says as he opened the door to leave. "I will be back, Sherlock. I'll see you soon," Mycroft said as he left, swinging his infamous umbrella as he walked out into the hall.


	3. Boy of Honor

John yawed as he made his way down into the kitchen. He sleepily made himself a piece of toast and spread his favorite strawberry jam onto it. He put the bread into his mouth, and walked into the living room.

As he passed the rather large Christmas tree, he glanced for a moment at the picture of his late father. A father who died in action in the army. Ever since John was a little boy, he had always idolized his father, and the duty his father had taken on. But when the letter came home, informing the remaining Watson of the soldier's demise, they were all impacted. The event made John's mother resent the military, believing they stole her husband and the life they could have lived together. Harry seemed like she was the least effected, though the loss of her father ached everyday.

And finally, with the loss of John's father, the youngest Watson made a promise to himself that he would continue in his father's footsteps and become a soldier. Though John had never told his mother in the fear of her rejection of his decision. John would not even tell his sister of his plan. The only one who knew was John's closest friend, Greg Lestrade, mostly due to the fact that Greg wished to join the police force as a detective once he graduated high school. That was one of the few things both teens had in common.

John flopped onto their overstuffed couch and munched on his toast. He thought of his father, his family's reaction to his decision, and how emotionally draining this holiday was going to be, for all of them.


	4. Rooming with a Psycopath, No Wait, Socio

Chapter 4: Rooming with a Psychopath, No wait… Sociopath.

The winter break came and went, without much that the youngest Watson had to deal with. Christmas was emotional, as predicted, John's mother broke down crying in the middle of dinner, blubbering to her children that their father would be so proud of both of them. This caused John to finish his dinner as quickly as possible and retreat to his room for some solitude. He never liked seeing his mother cry, but ever since his father's funeral, he couldn't count the times he heard her voice crack as she retold his father's legacy. Michael Watson was an amazing man, who helped impact many lives. John recalls the wake when the funeral home was filled to the brim. John had to stand for four hours, rarely sitting down to greet the couple hundred people. He couldn't even talk to Greg for more than a few minutes before another wave of people arrived, and Harry escorted him back to their place next to the casket.

The past couple months have been difficult for the Watson family. Any loss has an extreme impact on everyone that has known the person who died, no matter how insignificant the person believes the self to be. But the Watson's were resilient. John kept it all together for Harry and his mother. Unfortunately. That was when Harry began cutting and drinking just to feel something again. John had advised her against it, saying it would end up killing her, but the older Watson never listen to her brother's advice. One day, maybe, she would listen.

As John packed up the rest of his belongings into his cases, he came across an old scrapbook. They littered the house ever since his father's passing. Mrs. Watson had to pick a collection of pictures to present at the wake, and never bothered to put the scrapbooks back where they once were. John flipped through the pages as he saw his own face, so young and innocent. The boy in the picture was being held by his father, both were waving at the camera. John quickly shut the book and took a deep breath, still holding in all of the emotions that he tried so hard to keep down. He let his breath go, placed the scrapbook on his nightside table, and continued to pack his things.

Sherlock picked at the bandage covering his cut. The doctors said it would take some time to heal, because of the severity of the slash. He dreaded having to go back to school. To force himself to act apathetic, to stop himself from doing something like the, as Sherlock officially dubbed, "The Incident". He hated acting normal, just to please other people, he felt as if he didn't need to get to know anyone else. Sherlock liked being alone, alone protected him. Alone made him feel safe.

Sherlock stared blankly out of the town car's window, case resting against his leg. Mycroft was staring worryingly at his brother. He worried about how his brother would hold up, and glad that he forced the younger Holmes to room with another person. Mycroft flipped open the said boy's file. 'John Watson, age 18. Father recently deceased, killed in action. Seemingly emotionally stable, hard worker. Career choice #1: Doctor.' Mycroft believed that this boy may just be the thing Sherlock needs, someone stable, someone to counteract his brother's insane personality. Mycroft flipped the file closed as the car pulled up to the bus station, where Sherlock promptly grabbed his case and stepped out of the car, mumbling a goodbye to his older brother. Mycroft just gave a soft smile, then instructed the driver to take him home.

As John walked up the steep stairs to the second floor in the dorms, he groaned outwardly as his case's wheel got stuck on one stair. He dislodged the wheel and proceeded to just pick up the case and carry it alongside him. As John walked up to 221B, he fished the key out of his pocket, then unlocked the door.

It looked as if a free tornado ripped through the one side of the room.

John dropped his case next to the fairly clean bed and looked around to see if anyone was there. As he approached the bathroom, the door shot open and a boy John had seen two weeks ago appeared. His cold blue eyes scanned up and down the blonde's body, making John feel self-conscience.

"Um, Are you my roommate?" John asked timidly.

"Obviously, seeing as that I have a key to open this door, and have started to organize my things," the boy replied.

'Organized?! How is that mess organized?' John mentally screamed. "Um, I'm John Watson," John extended his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock curtly said, slamming the bathroom door closed again

'What the hell? What kind of name is Sherlock?' John passed back to his bed, threw his case on the blanket and unzipped his case. He pulled out his clothes and started to place them into the drawers, adding some order into the chaos.

"You're father was in the army, and you want to follow I his footsteps," a baritone voice chimed behind the blonde.

John spun around in shock. Sherlock had his arms crossed and was leaning agains the bathroom's door frame. John noticed the white bandage that was wrapped around his left arm. John decided to ask about it later.

"How did you know that?"

"Just by the way you act. You keep things in order which says that some male figure of importance was in the military, most likely army. You hold yourself upright which means either you are just accustomed to holding yourself that way, or you want to follow in the man's footsteps. But why? Because he died, the pendant around your neck looks way to long for you which means it has had a previous owner, you wear it to help keep the place of this man so he can, as the cliche goes, 'be with you always'. You want to become an army doctor. And I say doctor because I noticed you excel at biology, and your kind heart wants to save everyone, though how highly improbable that dream is," Sherlock ran off, as he began to walk toward the blonde.

"How do you know all of this? Did you read my file?" John asked defensively.

"I didn't read, I saw. I notice things about people. I can read them, and analyze them just as you would mitochondria."

"That's amazing!" John exclaimed, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.

Sherlock was taken back for a moment. No one has ever complimented him on his deducting abilities before. "Wait what?" He asked, not sure if he had heard the blonde correctly.

"I said that was amazing! You look shocked," John chuckled, as he returned to unpacking his things.

"That's not what people normally say..."  
"What do they normally say?"  
"Piss off."

Both boys started laughing. Sherlock's ribs started to hurt, it has been ages since he laughed like this. He calmed his breathing and looked back up at the blonde.

"Any other things I should know about before I finish unpacking my things?" John asked with a smile, looking back at the dark haired boy.

"I play the violin. Sometimes at odd hours. I tend to not talk for days on end, would this bother you?" Sherlock asked, as a knot began to form in his stomach.

"Not at all, I haven't been sleeping well lately anyway. I also like the sound of the violin," John replied, as he put his last shirt in it's place.

"I'm also a high functioning sociopath," the phrase fell out of Sherlock's mouth before he could stop it.

"Oh, okay. That's fine. It's all fine." John shook his head, putting his hands in his pockets. "I was worried that I was going to live with some psychopath, but a sociopath is fine. A lot better than a psychopath anyway."

The knot in Sherlock's stomach diminished. He awkwardly walked back to his side of the room and started picking up his things, mumbling about cleaning his side up a bit. John smiled and fell back onto his bed. Maybe rooming with Sherlock won't be as bad as John had originally thought.


End file.
